


For Mommy

by themoviegeekstrikesback



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:36:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoviegeekstrikesback/pseuds/themoviegeekstrikesback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things etched on paper, things etched on stone, but the things we can never leave behind are the things etched in our souls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Mommy

**Author's Note:**

> After I watched "In the Name of the Brother," I was haunted by an idea for a fic. It stayed on my mind for days, and it only became more vivid with time. I felt that I needed to fill in the gaps, and it worked well with the head canon that I have regarding Regina and Henry's relationship, as well as my head canon for the eventual direction of the season/series. 
> 
> Much thanks to my lovely beta, onellabella, who has done a lot to quell my fears and to prevent an unhealthy and borderline obsessive use of the comma.

 

 

It has been five years, three months, and two days since she first held him in her arms.

Henry started school last year, and since then, her mornings have been filled with a young boy bursting into her door and peering at her face, before nudging her slightly and telling her that they are going to be late. For a few minutes, she laughs, and she nuzzles his cheek, before pressing a small kiss. And every morning, he grins at her, those eyes bright and curious. Unencumbered.

She gives him her sweetest smile, and hopes that it is enough.

Today, at least, it is.

 

She hurriedly fixes her watch as the two of them walk into the kitchen. Henry takes his seat near the head of the table and starts to smear peanut butter and jelly over two slices of Storybrooke’s freshest whole wheat bread. As he chews, he tries for his best imitation of a puffer fish—he’s been fascinated with them ever since they went to see _Finding Nemo_ —and she tries hard not to forget what’s left of her mother’s lessons and laugh with her mouth full. Instead, she gestures with her knife to the plate, and he smirks at her, before downing his milk.

When the two of them finish their meal, she locks up and ushers him into the car, buckling him in before she does herself. When she looks to her right, he is clutching his lunchbox as if it holds the secret to life. “Shall we go, Henry?” She says, with a teasing smile.

“Yes, Mommy!” She starts up the car and he swings his legs in excitement. “Forward!”

When she backs out of her driveway, it seems like forward is the only way they could go.

 

Mary Margaret Blanchard is not Snow White—well, not _exactly_ , and that’s the point—and this is what Regina reminds herself every time she brings Henry to school. By some ridiculous trick of fate, Henry is in her class, and of course, Mary Margaret Blanchard is his favorite teacher. The two of them hold hands until they’re a whole set of lockers away from the room, and Henry turns to her. She nods, knowing that this is her cue.

“Have a good day at school, sweetheart,” She says, and maybe she coos, just a little bit. She can’t help it with him—he’s perfectly adorable at this age, what with those round cheeks, and the way his scarf seems to hide the rest of his neck. Her thumb brushes his cheek and she kisses it again.

“Bye, mommy.” He says, as he wraps his little arms around her neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She replies, and she steps back.

Regina watches Mary Margaret clutch her cardigan closer to her as she ushers Henry into the classroom, and watches the other woman offer a wave. She mentally takes a deep breath, and tries for a respectful, if not slightly curt, nod, which over the years Mary Margaret will take to mean the threat of grave harm, if she lets even one unkind word be directed at her son.

If she only knew.

She turns around, and tries hard not to smirk. There are children in here, after all.

 

It’s a Friday, which means Sidney has run out of stories to write, and will be doing ‘research’ about new developments at the Mayor’s office. Stalking is what she privately calls it. Ever since they’ve been transplanted here, he’s been a cross between a teenage boy and an actual journalist, and he’d be dangerous, if only for the fact that he’s so obviously besotted with her that they can probably see it from outer space. His attempts at research are nothing but a probe into her activities for the weekend, his tone laced with so much naiveté and hope.

It’s tempting, really, to tip her hand and tell him who he really is. Maybe in a few more years.

He tips his hat at her when she enters her office half an hour past nine, with her secretary trailing close behind, a tray in hand. “Good morning, Sidney. It’s nice to see you here.”

“Good morning, Madame Mayor. Always a pleasure to be in your company,” He says, and he nods at her secretary. “I was wondering if the Mayor’s office had any plans this weekend.”

She’d plant her face on her desk if she could. _Honestly_. Not even a change to a single damn word.

She tries for her most helpful smile. “Nothing’s lined up, unless if you count a day of leisure with my son.” She glances at the folders currently occupying her desk. Nothing urgent. Which means she’ll have to whip something up to shoo away Sidney.

“Surely you must have something,” He adds.“It is Mother’s Day, after all.”

“As I said, a day of leisure with my son,” Regina replies. “It would be more than enough.”

And it is. She’s been privy to the customs of this world for some time now, and she knows all about Mother’s Day. There’s nothing like it in their old land, and she shudders at the thought of even trying to give something to her own mother, which has been disastrous without the aid of a holiday. Even more mortifying is the thought of Snow White and Leopold trying to give something to her.

Then, there’s Graham. When he’s not straddling her, he’s straddling the lines between family friend and surrogate father. He tried chocolates last year, which ended up in the wastebin before Henry could get a whiff of anything processed and cocoa. He’s never given her anything since.

Henry is the only saving grace of this holiday.

Last year, he gave her a card he made himself. She’d had to shake out some of the leftover glitter from the construction paper, but inside was a drawing of the two of them, holding hands, with her apple tree in the background. She’d hugged him so tight, and he was grinning at her obvious joy. The two of them enjoyed a long lunch, and a slice of apple pie with ice cream. In the evening, they watched a series on National Geographic about megastructures, before he asked her to read him three stories in bed.

When she returned to her bedroom that night, she had to wipe away a tear from his card.

She would gladly repeat the same day over and over again, for all the years to come.

 

A sun is shining overhead, and there are smiles all around.

Mary Margaret goes around the classroom, watching all of her students add their touches to a simple plaster handprint. Some of the girls have chosen to add beads or stickers, while the boys have either chipped away at their plaster, or mixed a ton of colors together.

At the corner of the room, all alone, is young Henry Mills, who thumbs his nose as he works, leaving a smudge of pink powder on both his nose and cheeks. After a year in her class, she now knows that he can’t be disturbed whenever he’s engrossed in something—there was a black eye on one of her other students that served a testament to his focus and drive—and that he’s really happier working by himself. When he’s not working on something, he’s just like any other boy, sweet and naughty all at once, with a sly smirk on his face and a pair of legs fast enough for hide n’ seek and tag.

Henry’s eyebrows are furrowed in thought, and there’s a crease on his forehead. She walks over to him as he’s tracing letters on his plaster, and smiles at him.

“Do you need help with your plaster, Henry?”

He shakes his head resolutely, and etches out the last line of his letter ‘y’. “No, Miss Blanchard. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“If you need anything, I’ll just be checking on Ed and Anne, okay?”

He mumbles, “Okay,” and goes back to his plaster. He looks around and empties his cup of red paint, trying to match the color of his mom’s favorite fruit, but he only gets enough paint on the bottom of the plaster before he completely runs out. He raises his hand. “Miss Blanchard?”

She hands over a brush to one of his classmates and walks over to him. “Yes, Henry?”

“Can I have some red paint, please?”

She smiles at him and nods. “I’ll check if we still have some. I’ll be right back.”

When she checks her desk, she finds a container of red paint, good for barely a few smudges, let alone dyeing the plaster. Mary Margaret walks back to Henry with what little’s left, and gingerly pushes the container to Henry, who looks up at her.

His face falls, and he looks at the container with a sad half-smile.

“I’m sorry, Henry, but that’s all we have left.”

“It’s okay, Miss Blanchard,” He says, nodding at the container. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Henry.” She replies, and pats him on the shoulder. He uses up what’s left of the paint, and she takes that as her cue to leave.

When she looks up from one of her students and finds him, there is a crease on his forehead, and a worrying frown on his lips. And once the bell rings, Henry tucks his plaster into his bag, carefully, and walks to the door, his bag seemingly heavier than it was before.

 

The moment he walks out of the classroom, Regina knows that something has gone terribly wrong. Mary Margaret talks to him, and his lips lift a bit, but when he turns back to her, there’s a slight slump of his shoulders. He says nothing, just answering her greeting with a nod, and holds her hand all the way to the car.

She’s pretty sure she should have glared at _Miss Blanchard_ for that, but it doesn’t matter now. Not when Henry buckles himself in and clutches his backpack to his chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Henry shakes his head.

“Did someone pick on you at school?”

“No.”

“Did Miss Blanchard pick on you?”

“No,” Henry mumbles. “She wouldn’t.”

“Did you get into a fight?”

Another head shake.

“Did you get a bad grade?”

Then another.

She unbuckles his seatbelt and searches his face, before meeting his eyes. “Henry, you know you can tell Mommy anything, right? No matter what it is. It’s okay.”

Henry nods, and the second he does, his eyes get watery. If she was worried before, she is well and truly alarmed now.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Henry says, and he wipes away big, fat tears as he takes out his plaster handprint. “I wanted to make them red, like apples, but Miss Blanchard said we don’t have red paint anymore--”

Her breath hitches.

Henry cries out loud and kicks the dashboard in frustration. “Now I don’t have a gift for you. I’m sorry, Mommy. Don’t be mad.”

She takes the plaster handprint from him, careful not to break it, and runs her hands through all of the letters, and his handprint. He made this all by himself. For her. Her fingers touch her lips at the gesture. Such a simple thing to do, an easy thing to do. And yet it feels like the grandest gesture that anyone has ever done for her. Her heart is full of her little boy now, and there are tears threatening to leak from her eyes. She’s a mother. She’s the mother of this wonderful little boy.

There are a thousand horses galloping at her chest, as her mouth forms a wide smile. “Oh, Henry. This is wonderful. This is beautiful, sweetheart.”

His head jerks up suddenly. “Really?”

She can only nod. “Really. Thank you, Henry.”

Henry launches himself into her arms and hugs her tightly. “I love you, Mommy. Happy Mothers’ Day.”

“I love you too, Henry.” She replies, and just like that, a tear falls down her cheek.

“Mommy, why are you crying?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” She says, and to her horror, the tears keep on falling down her face. “Mommy’s just—Mommy’s just really happy now.”

She wipes away the tears on her face, and rubs his cheek slightly. His expression turns solemn as he turns to her, ready to listen to whatever it is she has to say.

“Henry, I want you to know that you can never disappoint me. Never.”

Henry nods in understanding, and hugs her once more. When the two of them break apart, he looks up at her with a hopeful expression and a smirk on his face. “Ice cream?”

She wipes away another tear in her eye and laughs, before buckling him in again. “Yes, let’s have some ice cream.”

 

 

“No, don’t do this.” The woman on the other side of the bars begs her in whispers, and she turns away slightly, just for a moment, so that she won’t see her mouth wavering, and her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Regina, please don’t do this. There has to be another way.”

When she turns to eye Emma, her lips form a hard, straight line. “I have to protect my son.”

“We can defeat her, together.”

She shakes her head. “I’m afraid together isn’t in the cards, Miss Swan.”

When she opens her eyes after casting the spell, all she sees is the sadness on her own face.

 

Once Cora discovers them, she wastes no time tying her up and giving Henry to Emma, while Snow and Charming are pinned to the wall. She laughs, and Regina hopes that the spell also hides the goosebumps rising on her own skin. Her mother’s laugh is not a pleasant sound, and it is just the tragedy that it is one of the few things she had inherited from the woman. “Silly little Snow and her family,” She says, as she tightens their restraints. She could hear Charming’s little gasps and feel Snow trying to break away. “Did you really think you can defeat me and my daughter?”

Cora turns away from them and brings her to eye level. Regina tries to convey the appropriate amount of fear, which isn’t at all that difficult now. This is the only way he can survive, the only way they can all survive, and she’ll hold on to that for as long and as hard as she could.

She then turns to Emma, and Regina sees the blooming scowl on her face, a sure sign of rebellion if there ever was one. Regina looks at her intently, begging her to school her features. “Rumpelstiltskin may be the Dark One, but I don’t think he taught you, dear--”

Cora’s hand is warm, and she feels it wrap inch by inch around her heart. Her mother has taken from her over and over again, and today will be the last.

“Mom!”

“Look away, Henry,” is all Emma can say, and she embraces Henry tightly, who is now struggling, trying to break free.

“Mom! No!”

“—How to properly take a heart.”

She falls to the floor, hard. It is as violent as being slammed on the wall of her father’s mausoleum. Her heart is ripped away, and when Cora crushes it with her hands, she can feel every bit of it turning to dust. She knows she’s returning to her old form, and Emma to hers. She can only watch as Cora slowly realizes whose heart she has crushed, now.

When the last grains of sand fall from her mother’s fingers, she is no more.

There is a gasp from both Charming and Snow, and Cora lets out a horrifying shriek. The witch falls to her knees, before dark magic consumes her completely, leaving only dust on the floor.

Snow and Charming are freed, and for a while, the four of them stand still, stunned. Henry’s mouth is hanging, and the pain in his eyes are indescribable as he stares at Regina’s lifeless body on the floor. He makes his way to Regina, gingerly, and lies down next to her. He nudges her slightly, as if she was only asleep. When she remains still, he moves closer, tucking his head under hers, and he presses his lips to her cheek.

“Mom,” He whispers, as his eyes fill with tears. “Mom, wake up. Wake up. Please. Please wake up for me.”

“Henry,” Emma says softly.

“Come on,” Henry urges, and tears fall down his cheeks. “Come on, Mom. _Please_.”

He clutches at her jacket, and her necklace makes a faint tinkling sound.

“Mom,” Henry says once more, broken. “I love you.”

He kisses her on the cheek, and waits for a blast of white light.

Waits for true love.

Waits for magic.

 

It never comes.

 


End file.
